You Have the Conn
by Jane Westin
Summary: Tony gives up control. Bruce takes it. Slash, first-time.


The first time Stark touched him, Bruce thought it was by accident.

He was standing in front of the touch screens in the lab, remotely calibrating spectrometers in Utah and Arkansas, and Stark walked behind him, and suddenly his hand was on Bruce's ass. Not a light little graze, either, but a full-contact swipe. Bruce jumped as though he'd been tased, his whole body tensing up, and turned to stare at Stark. Stark wasn't even looking at him.

So he thought it had been by accident, and didn't say anything, and went back to what he was doing. He heard the voice in his head, the low rumbling of the Other Guy (who seemed to react so intensely to Tony Stark in particular). Pushed it back down.

But then it happened again: Bruce scrawling notes on a piece of scrap paper, and Stark talking himself through an equation. "...Particle acceleration," he'd said, and Bruce remembers those words because they were punctuated by Stark's hand splayed on his back, and by a sharp, startled downstroke of Bruce's pen.

Bruce was so startled that he lost track of what Stark was saying. Found himself saying "what?" and Stark's hand stayed where it was and Stark repeated himself and Bruce said "what?" again. Then the hand was gone and finally the equation made sense, but Bruce was still confused.

Now Stark is touching him again, and this time there is absolutely no way it can be construed as accidental.

Bruce is frozen in his seat, fingers poised over the screen, stilled mid-swipe by Stark's hands on his shoulders.

"I think," Stark says in a low voice, "that we should take a five-minute break."

Bruce takes a deep breath, because he hears Stark's intention in his tone. And even if he wanted to, which he doesn't, he can't. Can't let down his defenses, that wall of calm he has worked so hard to build. Stark already brings the other guy close to the surface by virtue of proximity alone. He's not sure why the billionaire makes him feel so unbalanced and skittish; regardless, it's evidence that further contact would be...inadvisable.

No matter how good Stark looks in that ridiculous Black Sabbath T-shirt.

He stands up slowly, deliberately, feeling Stark's hands slip from his shoulders. Walks toward Loki's scepter without looking back.

"We've got a lot of work to do," he says.

Then, ten minutes later, Fury walks in, and it all goes to hell.

XXXXXXXXX

Shawarma.

He watches Bruce eat out of the corner of his eye: three times as much as any of the rest of them, not wolfing down his food, like Thor, or picking it apart, like Steve. Bruce is slow, methodical, each bite carefully measured. Just like everything Bruce does, so meticulous, so controlled, and Tony knows why but it still makes him fucking _crazy_. Because he can see it, under Bruce's bland little smile, hidden behind the bent wire-rimmed glasses he wears when he's working. He saw it over that first handshake. That hungry wanting aching look in his eyes, and if Bruce hadn't let his gaze stay locked with Tony's a little too long, Tony might have missed it.

That look. He knows that look, he _is_ that look, and it scraped him raw, seeing it reflected back at him.

Bruce doesn't make eye contact with anyone. He smirks once, shaking his head, but when Tony looks at him quizzically, he appears not to notice.

Thor is the first to finish his food, crumpling his napkin and tossing it into the middle of the table. He pushes his chair back from the table.

"Much as I would like to maintain your company," he says, "there is the issue of my brother to attend to." He nods at Tony. "My thanks for the food."

"Yeah, well, I know they don't make wallets out of mithril," Tony says, and when Thor looks at him blankly, he waves him off.

"We're going, too," Clint says, and fuck if he doesn't have a hand on Natasha's thigh. They leave together, her arm looped around his waist, steering him toward the door.

Steve looks from Bruce to Tony and back again, blue eyes narrowing, and Tony bristles at the expression on his face. He's looking at Bruce a little more closely than Tony thinks is strictly necessary.

"Dr. Banner," he says, in that old-Hollywood, ascots-and-monocles voice of his, "I'm not sure what accommodations Fury gave you, if any, but you're welcome to come stay with me until you figure out where you're going from here."

Oh hell no. "He's staying with me," Tony says immediately, and he sees that he's going to have to do some fast talking to wipe the expression of irritated consternation off Bruce's face. "I mean, I did promise you ten floors of gadgets and gizmos," he adds, "and you can't have the penthouse 'cause that's mine, but there's an apartment one level down from me that's pretty decent, guest-house-wise, granite and stainless steel, all those real estate buzz words. You don't have any cats, right?" He's talking to Bruce but staring at Steve, giving him his best go-ahead-and-fuck-with-me expression. Tony gets what he wants, goddamn it, and he wants Bruce.

Bruce looks at his hands. "I..." he starts, and trails off, his lips curled in an uncomfortable smile. "Guys, that's really nice of you, but I'm not going to impose and I definitely don't need a guest house."

"Nobody _needs_ a guest house," Tony points out, smirking when Steve breaks eye contact first, "but if it's there, you use it, that's kind of the point."

Steve is standing. "Well." He addresses Bruce, effectively ignoring Tony. "If you need anything, you know how to find me."

"Bye, take care, make sure you dry clean that Spandex so the stains don't set." Tony waves at Steve's back. He turns back to Bruce. "_Do_ we know how to find him? Do you think he can operate a cell phone?"

"You're an asshole sometimes," Bruce says, still with that little smile, still avoiding Tony's gaze.

"I'm aware. Goes with the billionaire territory, that whole consequence thing is lost on us, I can't help it. You don't look at people, you know that? Why don't you look at people? You look at computers all day long. You don't look at people." Tony tries to catch his eye and Bruce actually turns his body away.

"Hey." Tony gets up, wincing as his muscles spasm in protest, and limps painfully to the other side of the table. Sits down in front of Bruce. "Hey. I'm a lot better looking than a computer, you have to admit."

At that, Bruce smiles. Gives Tony his eyes. "Most of them," he says.

Tony tilts his head. "I'll give you the Mac ion, it's not bad as off-the-shelf computers go. Give me an hour, though, I'll build you one you'd much rather look at than me." He grins. "I'm not sure I'm helping my case, there, actually."

"No." Bruce picks up his napkin and starts to tear off neat, half-inch-wide strips. "Not much."

Tony bites back frustration because Jesus he's never met anyone as non-communicative as Bruce Banner. If he's not an enormous green rage monster, he has the emotional amplitude of an Allen wrench. Even Jarvis communicates better than Bruce does. Tony reaches over and gently takes the napkin out of Bruce's hand.

"Don't be an idiot," he says. "Come home with me."

Bruce flattens his now-empty hand on the table. It's big for a man Bruce's size. Makes him look a little like a half-grown puppy, imagery enhanced by his shaggy, greying hair and downcast eyes.

"Stark - " he starts, but Tony interrupts him because he doesn't, really _doesn't_, want to hear Bruce say no again.

"I think we've moved past surnames now that you've saved my life by plucking me out of the air and swooping me to safety, Disney Prince style," he says.

"I think he's more of a villain, actually," Bruce replies, and his voice sounds small and sad.

"Naw," Tony says lightly. He stands and cuffs Bruce lightly on the shoulder. "Come on, big guy. We've got showers and soft beds and, most importantly, an intact bar. It'll be great, like a slumber party. I'll let you do my hair."

Bruce looks up at him, and takes a little sip of air like he's going to say something else, and then he stands up too. Tony fires off a few celebratory rockets in his head.

"I'll be careful," Bruce says.

"Doesn't matter anyway," Tony says, resisting the urge to sling an arm around Bruce's sagging shoulders. He thinks about the condition of the main level of his penthouse, about the shattered plate-glass windows and the broken furniture and the Loki-shaped holes in the floor. Adds, "Hope you don't mind a bit of a breeze."

Bit of a breeze is an understatement; the eighty-fifth floor with no windows is a veritable wind tunnel. They tack up sheet plastic with flooring nails Tony finds in his workshop and secure the gaps with duct tape.

"Home sweet home," Tony says, looking around at his ruined living room. He walks around the bar - close to the wall, so it sustained relatively little damage - and pours two tall scotches. "Here."

But Bruce is standing in the middle of the room, hands folded together at his waist, the fingertips of his right hand worrying the knuckles of his left. He's looking down at the oversized dents in the floor.

"I did this," he says quietly. Jesus, the look on his face. Pain creased into the crow's feet around his eyes, the corners of his mouth.

"_You_ is a bit of a stretch, I think," Tony says, keeping his voice mild. "And no one will argue that Loki deserved it." He carries the drinks over to Bruce and holds one out. When Bruce doesn't move to take it, he taps the glass against Bruce's wrist. "Take this."

Bruce does, although he doesn't appear to register his action. He scuffs a foot against the floor.

"I hurt people," he says.

"Yeah, but you never nuked anyone," Tony points out. He nudges the hand holding the scotch. "Drink that."

But Bruce turns away. He puts the glass on an end table and starts to sit down.

"Whoa!" Tony darts in front of him. He puts his scotch next to Bruce's and picks up the cushions, shakes shards of glass onto the floor behind the couch. "Sorry. Inhospitable living environment. I don't want the first time I see your ass to be while I'm picking pieces of glass out of it." He flips the cushion over, pats it gingerly, then sits down. "Okay."

Bruce sinks into the couch and sighs. If he's heard the come-on, he doesn't acknowledge it. Bruce is, Tony decides, the best ignorer of flirtation he's ever met. He'd be more likely to get a response from the end table, for Christ's sake. The man redefines 'hard to get.'

"Bruce," Tony says, and now Bruce does look at him. With surprise. It's about time his expression changed from wry cynicism.

"Yeah?" His eyes flicker away and Tony dips his head, trying to hold Bruce's gaze. When that doesn't work, he swings off the couch and kneels on the carpet. Looks up into Bruce's eyes. Tries to infuse his words with all the honesty he can muster.

"I trust you," he says.

Burst of pain on Bruce's face. His lips compress, and he pushes Tony to one side and stands up.

"You have a shower?" he asks.

Tony sighs.

"Yeah," he says.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Tony's shower is disturbingly opulent. Blue-lit, tiled with something that looks expensive and Italian, and Bruce counts ten shower heads: two rainfall ones on the ceiling, a row of three on each wall, two hand-helds. The shower itself must be ten by ten. He thinks about where he was two weeks ago, living in a hut with a dirt floor, bathing in clean water only because he has money. Low rumble of anger from the Other Guy. He pushes it down.

"This do?" Tony asks. His hand is on Bruce's upper arm and Bruce knows he should pull away, he knows it, but Tony's fingers feel secure and safe and it feels so good to be touched and he is so, so tired.

"Yeah," he says. "It's great."

Tony drops his hand and Bruce misses its warmth immediately.

"Towels are, uh, over there - " pointing to a teak cabinet - "and shampoo is in the, um, usual spot...controls on the panel on the wall, temperature and pressure and so forth, and - "

And because Bruce is too tired not to, he turns and kisses Tony.

Split second of startled dark-roast eyes, and then Tony's goatee is scraping against his chin and his lips are still and soft, and Bruce is pulling away.

"Sorry," he says shortly, because the rumbling is getting louder and he wants Tony and he's scared. He starts to turn away, but Tony's hands come up and catch his upper arms.

And Bruce almost laughs, almost forgets about the Other Guy, because he never, not once, would have ever expected to see total speechless shock on Tony Stark's face.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I shouldn't have done that."

"I - " Tony's hands tighten and his eyes are big and oh, were his eyelashes always so long and dark? He blinks, seeming to gather himself. "Are you kidding me? Sorry? I've been throwing myself at you since I met you and you're _sorry_?" He laughs, one hand coming up to cup Bruce's neck. He starts to draw Bruce toward him.

Bruce resists. "I really..." Trails off, realizing it will be a lot harder to push off Tony's advances now that he's kissed him. So he lets Tony pull him closer, but instead of kissing him again, he rests his forehead against Tony's. Closes his eyes. Breathes in: sweat and blood and body odor and undertones of expensive cologne.

"You're killing me, Banner." Tony's voice is a low rasp.

"I need to shower," Bruce replies.

He's used to being naked. Goes with the territory when you turn into a seven-hundred-pound, ten-foot-tall Hulk once or twice a year. Frequently, he's woken up to find civilians clustered around his nude, no-longer-green body.

So it doesn't really bother him to shed the too-big New York City T-shirt, to undo his pants and kick them aside. What unhinges him is the expression on Tony's face: pure unbridled lust, and he's staring unabashedly at every inch of Bruce.

Bruce decides not to decide. He turns his back on Tony and gets into the shower. The first spray is welcome ice-cold.

The water hasn't even had a chance to warm up when he feels Tony's hand on his shoulder. He turns. Looks.

Tony is bruised all over, scraped and burned in several places; the skin around the arc reactor is red and irritated. Beneath the battle wounds, he is lean and corded and compact, veins standing out on his arms despite the cold. When Bruce looks down, he sees that Tony is already hard.

"Hi," Tony says.

Bruce takes a long breath. _Calm_, he tells himself, but he's terrified because he hasn't had sex since the accident, hasn't dared, and at the same time he is aching with wanting Tony.

"Hi," he replies.

They're touching at one point only, Tony's hand on Bruce's shoulder, and there is a good foot and a half of air between them. Water streams down from the rainfall shower heads, hot now, soothing.

"You okay?" Tony says. His eyes are locked on Bruce's, barely blinking despite the spray of water.

"I think so." Bruce brings a hand up, experimentally touches Tony's neck. Tony hisses softly; his eyelids flutter and close.

"That feels..." he starts, and groans a little when Bruce slides the hand over his shoulder and down his chest. The arc reactor makes Bruce's hand glow, turns the water running over it into rivers of light. "Good."

"Okay," Bruce says. "Okay." Because he can handle this, what they're doing now. It's unfamiliar and strange, but he can handle it, he's in control. He tastes for the Other Guy and doesn't find him.

He pulls away then. "Let me - " he says, and reaches for the shampoo.

Tony's eyes refocus. "Right," he replies.

They wash in silence, not looking at each other, and Bruce feels Tony's presence like a splinter in his palm. When he's finished rinsing off the last soap bubbles, he turns off the shower, and Tony does too.

"Here." Tony hands him a towel and he shakes it open and scrubs it over his hair. Then he's at a loss because his only clothes are the filthy ragged ones on the floor, and he doesn't particularly want to put them back on.

But Tony is a step ahead of him, opening a door on the teak cabinet and pulling out two robes. He holds it up and Bruce shrugs into it, first one arm and then the other. He ties the belt and looks at Tony.

Tony jerks his chin toward the bedroom. "Come on," he says.

XXXXXXXXXXX

It irks Tony that he's starting to get used to this dance, this chase-and-retreat he and Bruce have been doing for two days now. Two days. Has it really only been 48 hours since he put his hand in Bruce's?

Two days is a long time when you save the world. When a Hulk saves you.

He wasn't expecting Bruce to kiss him. Wasn't expecting Bruce to look at him with that needy, desperate expression, not after he had pushed Tony away in the living room. And Tony is fucked if he knows what to do now, because Bruce is clearly freaking out. He's barely glanced at Tony for the past twenty minutes.

But he's here, and that's something.

Tony waits, and that's hard because Tony _hates_ waiting, almost as much as he hates being handed things, he's used to deciding what he wants and getting it. Bruce isn't a pretty heiress or status-seeking celebrity, though. Bruce is...something else altogether. Something - someone - Tony wants to keep. And it's important, important that Bruce knows he's in control. Safe. So he waits.

And is rewarded, finally, when Bruce puts one of those oversized, puppy-paw hands on Tony's knee.

"I don't know how this is going to go," he says. He's not looking at Tony, and the little half-smile - so familiar now, Bruce's default expression - is incongruous to his tone.

"I almost never do," Tony says lightly, but his heart is racing now and his chest feels tight.

"I have to be..." Pause. "Careful."

Tony puts his hand over Bruce's. "I know."

"Slow," Bruce adds, and Tony tightens his grip.

"I know," he says again.

Bruce stands up.

Tony isn't sure what he's going to do, but shit, he's perfectly happy to let Bruce lead, this time. So when Bruce reaches for him, he stands up too.

They are eye-to-eye now and Bruce is looking straight at him, no longer smiling. "I'll tell you if it's too much."

"Deal." Tony feels like squirming with impatience, because Bruce is so close to him, so deliciously close, but he holds himself still.

Bruce's fingers move in his, tightening and loosening, thumbs brushing Tony's knuckles. Deep, slow breaths, and if it weren't for his dilated pupils and the rapid beat of his pulse against Tony's hands, Tony might've thought he wasn't interested at all. He takes a step toward Tony, bringing their bodies into contact, and Tony can't help it: he shudders and gasps.

"Sorry," Bruce says.

"You really have to stop saying sorry." Tony brings his hand up and puts it flat on Bruce's chest, tucking it under the lapel of his bathrobe. "You have nothing to be sorry about." Even though he knows, unequivocally, that Bruce feels as though he has _everything_ to be sorry about. It's why he apologizes all the damn time for things that aren't his fault. Why he doesn't make eye contact with anyone for longer than three seconds, why he buries his face in a computer screen at any available opportunity. Even now, he's looking down, looking at Tony's shoulder or chest or chin or god knows what.

Tony ducks his head and finds Bruce's gaze again. "You have nothing to be sorry about," he says, more firmly this time, and then he leans in and presses his lips to Bruce's.

Long exhalation, sigh against Tony's mouth, and both of Bruce's hands come up and settle on either side of Tony's neck. Long fingers cradle his skull, thumbs resting against the sensitive skin behind his ears. Bruce is kissing him back and it's deep and sweet and heady. He feels Bruce's tongue brush his lips and opens his mouth at once.

"This okay?" he murmurs, between kisses.

Bruce's voice is hoarse. "More than okay," he replies, and then his hands are at the belt of Tony's robe, untying it, pushing the robe down and away. Tony doesn't try to remove Bruce's robe; he just moves his hands out of the way and lets Bruce do it himself.

It almost kills Tony to stand like that, their bodies flush from shoulders to knees, feeling Bruce hard against his thigh. And when Bruce's mouth moves to his jaw, his throat, his shoulder, it undoes him. He clings to Bruce, breathing hard, wanting Bruce like he's never wanted anyone or anything in his life.

"It's a different - " gasp - "feeling," he says, as Bruce's lips traverse his collarbone and slide lower, detouring around the arc reactor, "not being the one driving the proverbial boat."

He feels Bruce chuckle against his stomach. "Is that what you call it?"

Tony starts to answer and instead hisses and sways as Bruce's tongue swirls across his hipbone. His hands go to Bruce's shoulders for support.

"Well," he says, and his voice sounds strangled and forced, even to him, "that, or swinging the hammer. Or manning the conn."

"Mining for vibranium," Bruce suggests, his breath hot on Tony's inner thigh.

"Not bad," Tony grits out, "although you don't really mine for it."

"Not enough to dig for?" Bruce's hand comes up and wraps around Tony's cock, which by now is as hard as the fucking Mark VII. Tony's hips jerk.

"Too many explosives," Tony says, and then he can't talk any longer because Bruce's mouth is on him and around him and all he can do is moan and breathe and moan again. He comes hard, clenching Bruce's shoulders, and as soon as he slides out of Bruce's mouth, he drops onto the bed.

"Jesus," he says. He takes Bruce's hands and pulls him up to sit beside him, then flops onto his back. "That was..."

Bruce is looking away, the little smile back on his lips. Tony watches him, unable to decide if it's real or the same old mask. He sits up. Reaches for Bruce's jaw and turns his head, gently, until their gazes lock.

"Spectacular," he finishes. He kisses Bruce lightly, tasting himself and liking it -_ now that's narcissism_ - and pulls back.

Real.

Now his head is clear(er - he's not sure how clearheaded he's ever going to be around Bruce, not as long as he keeps being brainy and sexy and so adorably sweet). Now he can focus.

"How you doing?" he asks.

The smile widens, and Bruce's eyelids drop, slowly, and come back up. "I'm good," he says.

Tony swings himself up and over and then he's straddling Bruce, his knees on either side of Bruce's hips, hands on his shoulders. "Lie back," he says, and Bruce does.

He kisses Bruce slowly, leisurely, keeping himself propped on elbows and knees. Bruce's hands wander over his body: shoulders, back, waist, stomach. And as Tony kisses him, they clench into his skin. Hard. Harder. Tony feels Bruce's breathing speed up, feels his hips come up off the bed as he grinds himself against Tony's stomach. His fingertips dig into Tony's skin.

Tony pulls back, worried. "I'm sorry," he says. "Too much?"

Bruce is glassy-eyed, clenching his jaw, but when he sees Tony's expression, he smiles. Brushes Tony's cheek with the pads of his fingers.

"Not nearly enough," he confesses, and his voice is unsteady.

Tony feels himself smile back. "Pretty sure I can fix that," he says, and there's no more kissing then. He puts his hands on Bruce's hips.

"You're still driving," he says.

Bruce's smile turns into a grin. "In that case," he says, "suck it, Stark."

And Tony does.


End file.
